


Stages

by docmatthew



Category: Longmire (TV), Walt Longmire Mysteries - Craig Johnson
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Lots of Angst, M/M, Multi, So much angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 13:21:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7316890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/docmatthew/pseuds/docmatthew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of how both Walt and Henry handled Martha's death. Based on the five stages of grief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stages

The buzz of monitors and the antiseptic smell of the hospital were lost on Walt. Everything felt like it was in slow motion as he moved through the hall passing patients and doctors but not seeing anyone. They had tried to save her. They had tried…

As soon as he was free of the hospital he went straight to the liquor store. His hand skipped over the _Rainier_ and settled on whiskey. He paid without saying a word. He slid into his truck with a deep sigh and cracked open the bottle without a second thought. He took a long pull off it, the amber liquid burning his throat as it went down. Another drink then he capped the bottle and set it aside. The drive to the motel felt like it took a thousand miles.

Once he was safely in the motel room he put the bottle on the small table, and grabbed a glass. He took off his hat and coat, hanging them up properly then shedding his button up shirt so he was in just a t-shirt and jeans. He settled in the uncomfortable plastic chair and poured himself a glass more than half full. He carefully took out his wallet and pulled a photo from it.

It was Martha on their wedding day. He laid the photo on the table and looked at it. Her dress was beautifully minimal, very Martha. She hadn’t agonized over it like Walt had seen other brides do. It was simple and fit her perfectly. He had always loved that dress and was even a little sad she couldn’t wear it again. Martha had opted for a non-traditional coloring for the dress. It was white but had robin egg blue running through it. The dress reached down to mid-calf on her and she didn’t have sleeves. It was summer when they married after all. But what was more beautiful than the dress was her. Walt had seen Martha in everything from formal dress to sweatpants and all were beautiful but on their wedding day she had an aura about her that just added to her natural loveliness. Her smile seemed all the more happy and she was so light on her feet.

That day had been beautiful. Mild in temperature. The bird flew and sang for them. It was a simple wedding. A few family members made the hike out to their wedding spot. Henry had been his best man, grinning like crazy the whole day while Walt was ridiculously nervous. The moment Walt saw Martha every nerve was lit on fire by love and passion.

As he remembered the day he drank down half the bottle of whiskey. He felt something on his cheek and reached up to brush it off but realize it was water. Or tears. He frowned and realized he was crying. He turned away from the photo because he didn’t want Martha to see him cry. He held onto the edge of the table and willed himself to stop.

After a few minutes he looked back up and poured more whiskey. He sat silently. He should call Henry. Henry deserved to know. After all Henry was as much part of their relationship as either of them. He swallowed thickly and decided he wouldn’t call right now.

If no one knew then he could pretend for a little while longer that Martha was here. That Martha was safe and alive. He just needed a little longer in a world where everyone still thought she was alive. He picked the picture up again and tried to remember their first dance when he had accidentally stepped on her feet a few times and mumbled apologies as he turned red. She kissed him each time and told him to keep going.

He should really call Henry.

Another glass of whiskey was drank as he looked at the photo. He lightly traced her image with his index finger as if he could still feel her skin or hair. His eyes closed as he finished off the glass. The bottle was down to one fourth and everything was a haze and slowed down. His eyes were heavy, and his limbs didn’t feel like they were completely in his control. He gave a look at the bottle before pushing it away like it was the bottle's fault he was feeling this.

Sleep. Without removing his jeans or boots he transferred himself to the bed, the picture of Martha in his hand. He laid down on the comforter and laid the photo on the adjacent pillow. If he tried hard enough he could imagine her next to him.

“Martha…” He hummed softly, drunkenly as his eyes slid closed and the world went away. The last thought he had was that he should really call Henry.


End file.
